Imperfections
by black.k.kat
Summary: 'At times when he's feeling especially poetic, Ianto thinks that those imperfect stones might make an alarmingly perfect metaphor for his relationship with Jack.' Now with bonus fix-it!


**Rating:** NC-17

**Word count:** ~ 1,500

**Warnings: **Smut, though it's mild, and lots of sap/fluff/angst.

**Disclaimer: **All recognizable characters are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the creators, and no copyright infringement is intended.

**A/N: **I have no excuses. (And yes, that is a fix-it you see there. I am a ridiculous person and I apologize.)

* * *

_**Imperfections**_

Despite all appearances to the contrary, Ianto is not actually a workaholic who does not know how to take a break. In fact, he's rather fond of vacations, especially to the seaside. On one of his bookshelves at home is a jar of stones he's collected in various places at various times in his life. They are exquisitely white, as smooth as particularly fine silk, and uniformly round. The stones would be utterly perfect, were it not for the fact that each of them has a dark, equally perfect flaw within it.

But for those flaws, they would be perfect.

Except that's not how Ianto sees them.

In his eyes, they are perfect for their flaws, not despite them.

At times when he's feeling especially poetic, he thinks that those imperfect stones might make an alarmingly perfect metaphor for his relationship with Jack.

* * *

Ianto wakes with the dawn, opening his eyes and sunlight spills into the room like warm honey. A beautiful day is breaking, the sky clear from edge to edge, and Jack is asleep on the pillow beside him. Ianto simply breathes for a few minutes, morning-lazy and far too contented to move, but in the end the temptation of seeing Torchwood's ever-chaotic captain like this is too much. Ianto raises himself up on one elbow, satiny sheets sliding down to pool at his waist, and looks at his lover.

Jack smiles, when he sleeps. Despite everything he has done, everything he has been made and has become, he is a happy person at heart. Ianto resists the urge to trace that small smile with his fingertips—which is far harder than it reasonably should be—and instead humors himself by trying to imagine what Jack is dreaming of to give him that expression.

_Are you dreaming of me?_ he wants to ask. _Do you dream of me as often as I dream of you, Jack?_

But he'll never let the words out, because here and now, like this, is the only time when he can show what he feels.

Because what they have, what is between them, was never supposed to turn into what Ianto feels right now.

It was supposed to be casual.

It was never supposed to get this far.

Ianto should have known right from the start that he could never keep all of this simply as fun and games, a casual affair between friends with occasional benefits. Because he at least knows _himself_, even if he's forever blindsided by Jack. He's aware of his own destructively fierce sort of love, and his ability to love despite all reason. It's a little odd, considering his general sensibility about everything else, but Ianto accepted it about the time he realized he loved the pretty secretary on Floor Nine, even though she was dating that bruiser from Security.

(Thankfully, Lisa Hallett broke up with Crispin Johnson a few weeks before Ianto asked her out; otherwise, Ianto might have found himself doing something…foolish.)

But there is no room for morose thoughts on such a beautiful morning, and especially not after such a lovely night. Ianto smiles to himself a little, stretching carefully. He's sore, certainly, but it's a wonderful kind of sore, the feeling of sex covering his body like a silken bruise. And he's _happy_, because Jack is here and Captain John Hart is gone and it seems like Jack is going to _stay_ now.

It's a shame, of course, that Jack wasn't able to find what he was looking for with the Doctor—because Ianto _always_ knew he was looking for something, waiting for someone, even if he didn't know what or who—but for the most part all Ianto can feel is a selfish kind of joy.

Jack is here, and he came back for _Ianto_.

That feels a bit like saving the world, a little like winning gold, and very much like overwhelming victory. Jack came back for _him_.

Knowing that, Ianto has to wonder if he'll ever be able to feel sad or upset again.

"I love you," Ianto whispers to Jack, because this is about the only time he feels like he can say it, when Jack is asleep and Ianto doesn't have to burden him with the knowledge of Ianto's foolish fall into adoration and infatuation. "I love you so much, Jack, you have no idea."

Never before in his life has Ianto wanted to cry with joy, but right now he does. The wetness gathering in his eyes does nothing to ease the prickling heat there, or the fierce joy welling up in his throat, but that's all right. There's no one to see this moment of weakness as Ianto shifts closer to Jack's side, burying his face in the curve of Jack's shoulder. The skin is warm from sunlight and sleep, and has the unique spice-and-citrus scent that Ianto associates solely with Jack.

In this moment, Ianto cannot remember his life ever being better.

There is a soft hum under Ianto's cheek, more felt than heard, and then Jack rolls over onto his back, arms coming up to wind around Ianto and pull him close. His eyes are still sleep-dazed, his smile lazy and languid and just a little wicked as he splays a hand over Ianto's hip. "Morning," he purrs, and for a moment he looks and sounds like nothing other than a big cat waking up.

"Good morning," Ianto returns with an answering smile, leaning down to kiss Jack soundly. It's relatively chaste, for them, because they've spent their desperation already. Last night was for the reunion of two lovers. Now is for the future.

And it will be a long, long future, if Ianto has anything to say about it.

"I could get used to waking up like this," Jack hums, fingers questing over Ianto's body, as though he's reading Ianto's mind.

(But he's not, because Ianto is shielding himself from that; there's a way to make this permanent, to bind himself to Jack forever, though it's fairly likely that he'll then die and resurrect with the Captain—but he's going to ask Jack to let him, first. Because Ianto is probably the most useless psychic Torchwood One ever trained, because he's only good for one thing—binding. But he will ask first, and not be like Rose/the TARDIS/Bad Wolf. If the answer is no, then Ianto will take matters into his own hands, but he loves Jack. He loves him to the point that he would disobey Jack, betray him, just to have the _option_ that they never be separated.

Ianto is willing to be hated, to be feared, if only he can give Jack one thing to cling to, be it in anger or love, for the rest of his existence.)

"As could I," Ianto answers, and it's simple enough to sling a leg over Jack's hips and settle there, grinding down just where the pressure is exquisite, pleasure a step away from becoming too much. It's the perfect angle from which to watch Jack, to see how his eyes go wide as Ianto twists his hips, black pupil swallowing blue iris and hunger replacing sleepiness. Jack's fingers are ten brands upon his skin, gripping tightly to his waist and giving him leverage rather than denying it, and Ianto throws his head back as glitters of lightning dart up his spine. He is exquisitely sensitive, and the sensation of riding an edge he has already fallen over once this morning—early, almost early enough to be last night—is addictive. This could go on forever, a time loop could catch them here, and Ianto would only glory in it.

"Jack," he whispers, and Jack cries out, hoarse and beautiful beneath him. It's enough to take him a single step over the edge, and send him falling, Jack half a moment behind.

* * *

Despite what the others might think, Ianto is not a perfectionist. He can see the flaws, see the imperfections, perhaps better than anyone else.

The difference is that he can also see them as perfections in their own right, which makes them beautiful.

(_I will bind you to me,_ Ianto thinks as he lies on Jack's chest, tracing the contours of muscle and bone. _One way or another, I will bind you to me, Jack Harkness, no matter what your answer is._)

As a psychic, he is flawed. It's why he was handed over to Torchwood One as a research assistant instead of to Torchwood Four as an agent. But Ianto's flaw is exactly what he needs and what he wants.


End file.
